The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘Ah, Mr Ryder,’ she said opening the door. ‘I was wondering if I would see you this morning.’

  ‘How do you do, Miss Collins. After some consideration, I decided I’d take advantage of your kind suggestion that I come and call on you. But I see you have a guest already this morning.’ I gestured towards her front parlour. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer I came back another time.’

  ‘I won’t hear of you going away, Mr Ryder. Actually, although you suggest I’m busy, compared to an average morning it’s rather quiet here today. As you see, I’ve only one person waiting. Just now I’m with a young couple. I’ve been talking to them for an hour already, but they have such deep-seated problems, they’ve so much to talk about and haven’t been able to until today, I haven’t the heart to rush them. But if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the front room, it really shouldn’t take much longer.’ Then, suddenly lowering her voice, she said: ‘The gentleman waiting now, poor man, he’s just miserable and lonely and wants a few minutes of someone listening to him say so, that’s all. He won’t be long, I’ll send him away quite quickly. He comes virtually every morning, he doesn’t mind being hastened on now and again, he gets a lot of my time.’ Her voice then resumed its normal tones as she continued: ‘Well, please come in, Mr Ryder, don’t just keep standing out there like that, even though I see it’s a very pleasant day. If you liked, if no one’s waiting by then, we could go and walk in the Sternberg Garden. It’s very close and we’ve a lot to discuss, I’m sure. In fact, I’ve given your position quite a lot of thought already.’

  ‘How kind of you, Miss Collins. Actually, I knew you might be busy this morning, and I wouldn’t have intruded on you like this if there wasn’t a certain amount of urgency involved. You see, the fact is’ – I gave a heavy sigh and shook my head – ‘the fact is, for one reason or another, I’ve not been able to go about things in quite the way I originally planned, and now, here we are, time is getting on and … Well, for one thing, as you know, I have to give my talk to the people here tonight, and to be absolutely frank with you, Miss Collins …’ I almost came to a stop, but then saw her looking at me with a kindly expression and made an effort to continue. ‘To be frank, there are a number of issues, local issues here, I’d like your advice on before … before I can finalise’ – I paused in an attempt to stop my voice wobbling – ‘before I can finalise my address. After all, all these people are depending so much on me …’

  ‘Mr Ryder, Mr Ryder’ – Miss Collins had placed her hand on my shoulder – ‘please calm yourself. And do come in, please. That’s better, come right in. Now please stop worrying yourself. It’s very understandable you’d get a little agitated at this stage, that’s perfectly natural. In fact, it’s rather commendable you should be so concerned. We can discuss all these things, these local issues, don’t worry, we’ll do that very shortly. But let me say this much now, Mr Ryder. I do think you’re worrying unduly. Yes, you’ll have a lot of responsibility on your shoulders tonight, but then you’ve been in similar situations many many times before and by all accounts you’ve acquitted yourself more than creditably. Why would it be any different this time?’

  ‘But what I’m saying to you, Miss Collins,’ I said interrupting, ‘is that this time it’s been quite different. This time I’ve not been able to go about things …’ I sighed heavily again. ‘The fact is I haven’t had a chance to prepare my ground in the usual way …’

  ‘We’ll talk about it all very soon. But Mr Ryder, I feel certain you’re getting things out of all proportion. What have you to so concern yourself about? You have unrivalled expertise, you’re a man of internationally recognised genius, really, what have you to fear? The truth is’ – she lowered her voice again – ‘the people in a town like this, they’d be grateful for anything from you. Just talk to them about your general impressions, they’re not about to complain. You’ve nothing at all to fear.’

  I nodded, realising that she indeed had a point, and almost immediately I felt a tension lifting from me.

  ‘But we’ll discuss it all very thoroughly in just a little while.’ Miss Collins, her hand still on my shoulder, was guiding me through into her front parlour. ‘I promise I shan’t be long. Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable.’

  I went into a small square room filled with sunlight and fresh flowers. The disparate assortment of armchairs suggested the waiting room of a dentist or doctor, as did the magazines on the coffee table. At the sight of Miss Collins, the stocky man rose immediately to his feet, either out of courtesy or because he hoped she would now invite him through into the drawing room. I was expecting to be introduced, but the prevailing protocol seemed indeed to be that of a waiting room, for Miss Collins merely smiled at the man before disappearing through the inner door, murmuring apologetically as she did so, apparently to us both: ‘I shan’t be long.’

  The stocky man sat down again and gazed at the floor. I thought for a moment he would say something, but when he remained silent I turned and seated myself on a wicker couch occupying the sun-filled bay of the window I had earlier looked through. The basket work creaked reassuringly as I settled myself into it. A broad band of sunlight was falling across my lap, and there was a large vase of tulips close to my face. I immediately felt very comfortable and in a quite different frame of mind concerning what lay before me than when I had rung the doorbell only minutes before. Of course, Miss Collins was absolutely right. A town of this sort would be grateful for virtually anything I cared to offer it. It was hardly conceivable that people would scrutinise my points closely or become critical. And as Miss Collins had again pointed out, I had been in such positions countless times before. Even with my ground less well prepared than I would like, I was still bound to be able to deliver an address of some authority. As I continued to sit there in the sunshine, I found myself growing ever more tranquil, and more and more amazed I could ever have worked myself into such a state of anxiety.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ the stocky man suddenly said to me. ‘Are you still in touch with any of the old crowd? People like Tom Edwards? Or Chris Farleigh? Or those two girls who used to live at the Flooded Farmhouse?’

  I realised then that the stocky man was Jonathan Parkhurst, whom I had known reasonably well during my student days in England.

  ‘No,’ I said to him, ‘unfortunately I’ve rather lost touch with everyone from those days. Having to move around from country to country as I do, it’s just impossible.’

  He nodded without smiling. ‘I suppose it must be difficult,’ he said. ‘Well, they all remember you. Oh yes. When I was back in England last year I met up with a few of them. They’d all apparently been meeting once a year or so. I envy them sometimes, but mostly I’m glad I haven’t got myself stuck in a circle like that. That’s why I like living out here, I can be anyone I want here, people don’t expect me to be the clown all the time. But you know, when I went back, when I met them in this pub, they immediately started again. “Hey, it’s old Parkers!” they all shouted They still call me that, as though no time at all had gone by. “Parkers! It’s old Parkers!” They actually made this big braying noise to welcome me when I first came in, oh God, I can’t tell you how awful it was. And I could feel myself turning back into that pathetic clown I came here to get away from, yes, from the moment they started that braying noise. It was a nice enough pub, mind you, a typical old English country pub, a real fire, those little brass things all over the bricks, an old sword over the mantelpiece, a hearty landlord saying cheerful things, all of that was very nostalgic, I do miss it all living out here. But the rest of it, my God, it makes me shudder just to think of it. They made that braying noise, fully expecting me to come bounding up to the table clowning away. And all through the evening, they kept mentioning one name after another, it wasn’t as though they even discussed them, they just made more noises, or else laughed immediately they mentioned another name. You know, they’d mention someone like Samantha, and they’d all laugh and cheer and whoop. Then the
y’d call out some other name, Roger Peacock, say, and they’d all break out into some sort of football chant. It was quite awful. But the worst of it was they all expected me to be the clown again and I just couldn’t do anything about it. It was like it was completely unthinkable I could have become someone else, and so I started it all again, the funny voices, the faces, oh yes, I found I could still do it all very well. I suppose they’d no reason to suppose I didn’t carry on like that out here. In fact, that’s exactly what one of them said. I think it was Tom Edwards, at one point in the evening, they were all very drunk, he slapped me hard on the back and said: “Parkers! They must love you out there! Parkers!” I suppose this must have been just after I’d done another of my turns for them, perhaps I’d been telling them about some aspect of life out here and I’d been clowning it up a bit, who knows, anyway that’s what he said and the others were laughing and laughing. Oh yes, I was a big hit. They all kept saying how much they missed me, I was always such a good laugh, oh it was so long since I’d heard anyone say such a thing, so long since I’d been received like that, it was so warm and friendly. And yet what was I doing that for again? I’d vowed never to be like that, that’s why I came out here. Even as I was walking to the pub, I’d been saying to myself all the way down the lane, it was very chilly that night, foggy and very chilly, I was telling myself all the way down the lane, that was years ago, I’m not like that any more, I’m going to show them how I am now, and I said it over and over trying to make myself strong, but as soon as I walked in and saw that warm fire and they did that braying noise to welcome me, oh, it’s been so lonely out here. Okay, here I don’t have to do all those faces and funny voices, but at least that all worked. It may have been intolerable, but it worked, they all loved me, my old university friends, poor sods, they must believe I’m still like that. They’d never guess it, that my neighbours think I’m this very solemn, rather dull Englishman. Polite, they think, but very dull. Very lonely and very dull. Well, at least that’s better than being Parkers again. That braying noise, oh, how pathetic, a group of middle-aged men making that sort of noise, and me, pulling my faces and doing those silly voices, oh God, it was truly nauseating. But I couldn’t help it, it was so long since I’d been surrounded by friends like that. What about you, Ryder, don’t you long for those days sometimes? Even you with all your success? Oh yes, that’s what I was going to tell you. You may not remember any of them very well now, but they certainly remember you all right. Whenever they have one of these little reunions, it seems, there’s a little part of the evening devoted specially to you. Oh yes, I’ve witnessed it. They go through a lot of the other names first, they don’t like to get to you straight away, you know, they like a good run-up. They actually have little pauses when they all pretend they can’t think of any more people from those days. Then finally one of them says: “What about Ryder? Anyone heard of him lately?” Then they all explode, making the most disgusting noise, something half-way between a jeer and a retch. They do it all together, repeatedly, really, that’s all they do for about the first minute after your name’s mentioned. Then they start to laugh and then they all start to mimic piano-playing, you know, like this’ – Parkhurst put on a haughty expression and played an invisible keyboard in a highly precious manner – ‘they all do this, then make more retching noises. Then they start in on the stories, little things they remember about you, and you can tell they’ve already told them to each other many times over because they all know, they all know at which points to make the noises again, at which point to say: “What? You’re kidding!” and so on. Oh, they really enjoy themselves. The time I was there, someone was remembering the evening the finals finished, how they were all getting ready to go out on the piss for the night and saw you coming up the road looking very serious. And they’d said to you: “Come on, Ryder, come and get pissed out of your brain with us!” and apparently you’d replied, and here whoever’s telling it puts on this face, apparently you’d said’ – Parkhurst once more transformed into the haughty creature and his voice assumed a preposterously pompous tone – ‘ “I’m much too busy. I can’t afford not to practise tonight. I’ve missed two days’ practice on account of these horrid exams!” Then they all make the retching noise together, and do their piano-playing in the air, and that’s when they start … Well, I won’t tell you some of the other things they get up to, they’re quite appalling, they’re a loathsome lot and so unhappy, most of them, so frustrated and angry.’

  As Parkhurst had been talking, a fragment of memory had come back to me from my student days, one which for a moment made me feel very tranquil, so much so that for a while I hardly cared what Parkhurst was saying. I was recalling a fine morning not unlike the present one, when I had also been relaxing in a couch beside a sunny window. I was in my little room in the old farmhouse I was sharing with four other students. On my lap was the score of some concerto I had been studying in a lackadaisical way for the previous hour, which I had been considerering abandoning for one of the nineteenth-century novels piled on the wooden floor near my feet. The window was open allowing a breeze to drift through, and from outside came the voices of several students sitting in the uncut grass arguing about philosophy or poetry or some such thing. My small room had had little else in it apart from that couch – just a mattress on the floor and, in the corner, a small desk and upright chair – but I had been very fond of it. Often the floor had become entirely covered with the books and magazines I browsed through on those long afternoons, and I had got into the habit of leaving my door ajar so that whoever happened to be passing could just wander in for a talk. I closed my eyes and for a moment was seized by a powerful longing to be back in that little farmhouse again surrounded by open fields and companions lazing in the tall grass, and it was some time before what Parkhurst was actually saying began to sink in. Only then did it occur to me that it was some of these same people, whose faces had now merged with one another in the memory, whom I had once languidly welcomed when they had peered around my door, and with whom I had spent a casual hour or two discussing some novelist or Spanish guitarist, it was some of these very people Parkhurst was now speaking of. But even then, such was the almost sensuous pleasure I was experiencing as I reclined in Miss Collins’s wicker couch in the sun-filled bay that I still felt no more than a vague and distant discomfort concerning Parkhurst’s words.

  He went on talking and I had long since ceased to attend to him when I was startled by the sound of someone tapping the window pane behind me. Parkhurst seemed not to want to hear this and continued talking, and I too tried to ignore the noise as one might an alarm clock when disturbed in luxurious sleep. But the tapping persisted and Parkhurst finally broke off, saying: ‘Oh goodness, it’s that Brodsky fellow.’

  Opening my eyes, I looked over my shoulder. Indeed Brodsky was peering in intently. The brightness outside, or perhaps something about his own vision, appeared to be giving him difficulty seeing in. His face was pressed against the glass and he was shading his eyes with both hands, but he seemed still not to see us and it occurred to me he was tapping the glass believing Miss Collins herself to be here in the room.

  Eventually Parkhurst got to his feet, saying: ‘I suppose I’d better see what he wants.’

  22

  I could hear Parkhurst opening the door and then voices arguing out in the hallway. Eventually Parkhurst came back into the room, rolled his eyes at me and gave a sigh.

  Brodsky came in behind him. He looked taller than when I had last seen him across a crowded room, and I again noticed the odd way he held himself – at a slightly tilted angle as though about to topple over – but saw too that he was completely sober. He had on a scarlet bow tie and a rather dandy-ish black suit which looked brand-new. The collars of his white shirt were pointing outwards – whether by design or through excessive starching, I could not tell. He was holding a bouquet of flowers and his eyes were weary and sad. Brodsky paused at the threshold and peered tentatively around the door frame
, perhaps expecting to discover Miss Collins in the room.

  ‘She’s busy, I told you,’ Parkhurst said. ‘Look, I happen to be a confidant of Miss Collins and I can say with certainty she will not wish to see you.’ Parkhurst glanced at me, expecting me to confirm this, but I had decided not to get involved and simply gave Brodsky a weak smile. Only then did Brodsky recognise me.

  ‘Mr Ryder,’ he said, and bowed his head gravely. Then he turned again to Parkhurst. ‘If she’s in there, please, go and get her.’ He indicated his bouquet as though it would in itself explain why his seeing her was so imperative. ‘Please.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t help you. She won’t see you. Besides, she’s talking to some people.’

  ‘Okay,’ Brodsky murmured. ‘Okay. You won’t help me. Okay.’

  With that he began to move towards the inner door through which Miss Collins had earlier disappeared. Parkhurst quickly blocked his route and for a moment Brodsky’s tall gangly frame and Parkhurst’s small stocky one came into conflict. Parkhurst’s method of halting Brodsky consisted simply of pushing at the latter’s chest with both hands. Brodsky, meanwhile, had placed a hand on Parkhurst’s shoulder and was gazing over it towards the inner door, as though he were in a crowd and was politely peering over the person in front of him. All the while he continued to make a steady shuffling motion with his feet, intermittently mumbling the word ‘please’.

  ‘All right!’ Parkhurst eventually shouted. ‘All right, I’ll go and talk to her. I know what she’ll say, but all right, all right!’

  They separated. Then Parkhurst said, raising his finger:

  ‘But you wait here! You make jolly sure you wait here!’

  Giving Brodsky a final glare, Parkhurst turned and went through the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  At first Brodsky stood staring at the door and I thought he was about to follow Parkhurst. But in the end he turned around and sat down.